


Cast Off and Purl

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Babies, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Comfort Sex, Conceal Don't Feel, F/M, Feels, Flashbacks, Friends With Benefits, Fugitives, Hurt/Comfort, I regret this and kinda want to delete it but I can't, Kitchen Sex, Knitting, Natasha Feels, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Beta Read, Porn, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Spoilers, Steve Feels, past natasha romanov/bruce banner - Freeform, people who are horrible with their feelings, some kind of explanation for past steve rogers/sharon carter, the ending I want, well it's mostly linear but the flashbacks are all over the place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-08 10:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6851881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TBH this is a disaster. But so are my feels after CW. Spoilers. Spoilers everywhere. And basically, ultimately the ending that I have always wanted for my OTP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> what I have so far has been beta'd for feels by @sunnie91, who so selflessly lets me text her on a Friday night to ask for help. I should also thank shitty cam versions and @myloveiamthespeedofsound, who said I could publish this in chunks instead of as a one shot.

On the fourteenth day of her exile, Barbara Grant (AKA Natalie Rushman, AKA Natalia Alianovna Romanova, AKA Irina Zlataryova, AKA Natasha Romanoff, AKA the Black Widow) took up knitting.

She started the day by eating bread toasted on a small paraffin camping stove and as she chewed, she decided she needed a hobby. She’d already made her way through the list of things people do when they are fading away into obscurity. She’d watched all five seasons of _Breaking Bad,_  even though she hated it, because it was something she’d always been told she needed to see. She even watched two seasons of _the Dog Whisperer_ in Clint’s honor. She walked around the sleepy town once or twice, a soft but ugly knitted hat with earflaps covering her hair. She’d sat on the rocks by the sea and wished she could write or draw or do something besides throw uneaten sandwiches to the gulls, at least _they_ loved her. And she’d slept, which was refreshing until it was exhausting, her dreams not something she was thrilled about revisiting every night.

_“You know, the rumor is that you’re royalty,” he smiled into the crook of her knee and she hummed, shifting her body so as to tell him he could just keep going and she wouldn’t complain. He made her feel like royalty sometimes, not that she’d admit it to him. He made her feel light and unburdened, like she could ask for anything, like maybe she should._

_“What do you know about rumors?” she teased and he gave her one of those looks, the one that said he knew more than he let on, his eyebrow raised just slightly. It was a look that made her shiver, maybe her kryptonite because it was so damned sexy and the first time she’d noticed it, she couldn’t get it out of her head. What he knew and how much was really an act, schtick that everyone bought without question._

_“They say your father was Tsar Nicolas.” He said it as he kissed the inside of her thigh and she jumped. Bastard._

_“And what would you do if I was?” she reached a hand down, fingers through his hair and he pressed against her like a cat. His tongue was much fatter than any cat she’d ever known, much wetter, but the idea of it made her giggle. He gave her another look before moving lips up her belly and her breasts and her throat in a random pattern._

_“I’d say I’m honored, your Highness.”_

_God so charming and sappy and romantic. He’d said it with all sincerity too, damn him. Even stopped to kiss the back of her hand and she’d pulled on the scruff of his neck so that she could kiss him, could tell him without words how good he was for her even if what they were doing was a bad idea._

_Clint shrugged when she sat at his kitchen table and told him about it, intentionally unbothered and maybe she’d caught even a little bit of relief._

_“Yeah, well. When have either of you been known for making wise choices?”_

Natasha ( _fuck if she was going to call herself by this stupid alias, then she’d really be certifiable_ ), let the bread and the rich butter sit in her mouth as she considered the laundry list of questionable decisions she’d made in recent years. Some of those were good mistakes, she was resolute in that point because she did not want to wallow. But even for their good, she couldn’t hold back the bitterness.

_“Staying together is more important than how we stay together.”_

She’d said those words honestly, not because she was begging him to fold.  She’d said them because she loved him, even when she’d tried her damndest not to. Because he was different and they were different and even if they were only… whatever they were…

Natasha took a gulp of hot tea and sighed, the hot liquid burning the back of her throat and tears rushing to her eyes. She’d done enough grieving, it was time to move. She looked over at the hat she’d picked up in Cuzco and narrowed her eyes. She could kill someone in ten different ways with her hands tied behind her back and she spoke six different languages, not counting dialects and definitely not counting her ability to hack her way into the local network (not like she was going to pay for internet if her neighbor so nicely had it provided for free). But she couldn’t garden, couldn’t cook, and had no desire to learn photography. It was time to take up knitting.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm worried that this is a disaster in part because everyone will be like... I have read this story... :( Well. Weeelll. *shrugs*

_ Make a loop in the yarn with your right hand, like a noose. Try not to kill yourself with it, you’ve got potholders and scarves to stitch.  _

It had been ridiculously hard choosing colors for her yarn. Blue, she’d said first. There was a deep royal blue that had caught her eye right away, the color comforting. But she shook her head, it was too nostalgic and black would be a better fit or even one of the earthy brown tones on the shelf in front of her.  Which one she chose ended up being a bigger decision than it should have been ( _ Blue… no black...wait, blue… _ ). 

So when she sat down and tied her blue slipknot, Natasha rolled her eyes at herself.  It was just a color and she was overthinking things. She tried to focus instead on learning how to load the stitches to her needle, on the feel of the ball of yarn in her hand, not quite heavy but somehow satisfying. Suddenly knitting seemed doable, something that  _ of course _ she could master. And then maybe she’d take up baking, she mused, rolling her eyes at herself. 

_ That would be poetic, wouldn’t it? Just a month ago, I was dodging explosions and fighting my friends in Germany and now I’m thinking about how to make muffins.  _

The thought of muffins made her stomach turn. Or any food that wasn’t toast and butter, castigation she figured for her role in her problems. 

_ (Not that she didn’t have reasons. They all had reasons). _

Reasons for throwing a teenager who didn’t even know how to drive into a goddamn firefight. 

Reasons for blaming victims and minimizing loss and collaring girls like they were sociopathic criminals.

Reasons for separating families and putting fathers in danger. 

Natasha put the needles down and sighed, hand going to her beltline for a fleeting second because there was a truth there that she didn’t have the emotional energy to face just yet. Truth, she knew, could be manipulated and bent and denied. 

_ “It looks great, you look great,” he said, words falling out way too fast and she squinted playfully, turning around to twirl the skirt of an ill-fitted pale peach suit, the kind of thing worn for an assignment, the kind of thing that made her look just like any other mid-thirties Republican from Lincoln, Nebraska.  _

_ “You’re a shitty liar,” she smirked, even if she appreciated his attempt to care for her feelings, like she cared about how she looked in costume.  _

_ “Are you alright? You could take a day off, you know.” He made that suggestion with even more care, a wise move because even she knew she hadn’t dealt with the aftermath of Sokovia well. No it was easy to bury it all. To dig a deep hole in the ground and fill it with bullshit assignments and paperwork and vodka and late night thai food. They had a job to do, a team to train, and she’d spent her life mastering the skill of disassociation. It was fine. She was fine. Fine. Just Fine.  _

_ “I’m f…” _

_ “A lot more than most, Natasha, I’m not arguing,” he held his hands up to tell her he wasn’t going to fight her on it. “But if you need to talk…” _

_ Natasha stiffened, turned away because he’d been the last person to ask. The last person to ask her to address her feelings, to suggest that she could use Professional Help because everyone needs Professional Help sometimes. It would be fucking hypocritical of him to do so and she mentally steered herself toward that argument if she had to use it. _

_ “Not really,” she tried to be evasive, moving around him as he leaned against the kitchen sink so that she could reach for her coffee cup. He touched the small of her back and she turned, grabbing his hand on instinct, her body tight because there was intimacy in that touch and she didn’t know if she was ready for intimacy, if he of all people should go there.  _

_ “Don’t,” Natasha said. As what? As a warning? He was trying to be nice, to be supportive and soothing and there. But it was also the kind of touch that triggered all the things she was actively trying to bury and she thought he probably knew that.  _

_ “Come on, Nat. As a friend. That’s what friends do. Friends talk things out. Friends listen. We’ve had this conversation before.” _

_ “Don’t lecture me on friendship,” she said calmly, her emotions carefully tucked away. “You sound like Clint. Like I need to be babysat.” _

_ “It’s been months. You always act like things don’t affect you, like you’re made of stone,” he pushed gently. He was right. They’d had this talk before, the last time she’d pulled her clothes back on, the last time she’d left him, angry because he was asking way more of her than she was interested in giving. The last time she’d even tried thinking maybe it would even work, because it wasn’t like he was available even when he thought differently.  Not when he was busy searching for ghosts, when half of his heart or more was focused on the past and the other half on work. Like she could even judge, like she even wanted to and it made her angry when he even suggested a relationship. It was only stubbornness and sentimentality and she told herself that maybe in a different life or when the timing was better.  _

_ And then.  _

_ And then Banner.  _

_ Another broken person, someone who felt at the time like a mirror and maybe someone to piece everything back together with. Someone who wasn’t asking for anything, wasn’t expecting anything of her that she couldn’t give, wasn’t expecting anything at all.   _

_ A familiar pattern, the type she didn’t think she had. By the time she realized this, of course, and realized she’d been trying to force Banner into the mold of someone he could not be, he was long gone and she was standing in rubble next to the man who she’d pushed away and a bridge she’d burned.  _

_ It had taken her months. Months of forgetting what Ultron’s eyes looked like as he soliloquized, months of building herself back to the place where she didn’t feel rejected and worse for wear. And so much of that she credited to hours at the office, in the gym, in the bar down the street from time to time.  _

_ Did she want to talk? No. Honesty had gotten her nowhere. Talking and putting herself on the line had left her only at ground zero. Fuck talking.  _

_ “Nat,” he touched her elbow and when she looked in his eyes, she thought maybe he was pleading her to stop, to let go. “Are we friends?” _

_ Natasha felt a lump in her throat, the ultimate betrayal, and he must have seen her face fall a little because his thumb stroked her arm. Not to push, just to say that he was there. That he wanted to be there. Even after she’d told him they were better off platonic, even after she’d said that and then thrown herself at the next one who wasn’t even in line. _

_ “You would have been good for him, Nat,” he said softly, blue eyes sincere and she all but folded.  _

_ “I’m not good for anyone.” _

_ “Oh Nat,” he sighed. “You’re good for me.” _

_ And then she did crumble into his arms, which she’d forgotten felt so good, so strong, like steady walls that would keep her safe if she allowed them too. It had been her idea, a blind choice made out of grief she supposed, to press against him because she needed someone and he was the safest someone she knew.  He didn’t reject her, only fed her bruised ego with whispers about how beautiful she was as he bruised her lips with his own. They didn’t even finish unclothing, just feverish undoing of belt and rucked up ugly peach skirt because anything more required feelings and truth. Better to feel the denim of his jeans on her thighs and his breath in her ear as she trembled in his arms on the sofa of the tower kitchen. Tactile memory over coherent thoughts. He’d always been so good about respecting her limits and letting her set pace.  _

It took her the rest of the day to get a good line down, though she figured she’d eventually pick up how to do it without dropped stitches and knots. For now, imperfections were instructional and served a purpose 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate all of this.

 

_When casting on stitches, keep every stitch uniform and loose. Try not to stab yourself with the knitting needles when one stitch gets twisted. Keep switching needles as you stitch. No one gives a flying fuck about allegiances and preferences in knitting._

Natasha had the makings of a long, royal blue scarf when she considered the pregnancy test for the first time. She ticked off the symptoms in her mind with each stitch and then ticked them off again, dismissing them quickly because the universe would never be so cruel.

She was picking out dropped stitches and analyzing how to make her scarf tighter when she remembered flying through New York on the back of a metal alien thing.  Something impossible to comprehend in the long and growing list of things she had been asked to believe.

A baby. A fetus. She'd seen crazier.

“It's your first?” the pharmacy tech smiled as she rung up all five of the different pregnancy tests Natasha had selected, hinting that all first time moms had to test and retest to believe the results. Natasha nodded, her stomach in knots, because it was almost insulting that after all she’d been through and all she’d lost that there might be a life growing inside her.

_"I can’t have children,” she’d blurted, because it was the thought that kept swimming in her mind as she rested against him. He lifted his head off the pillow so that he could look her in the eye, the arm around her tightened. Because even if she thought she’d long ago grieved it and accepted it, bringing it up to Banner had reopened old wounds._

_He didn’t say anything at first, just watched her with sad eyes._

_“Not that I want children,” she said quickly. “I can't be someone's mother.”_

_“Nat,” he said her name softly, and she considered how different the confession felt this time. She let her familiar words tumble out, half to test how he’d respond. Monster. Broken. Damaged._

_“You aren't any of those things,” he said, meeting her eyes, his voice thick and forceful. “What do you want, Nat? You wanna be a mom? You could be. There are ways. You’d be a great mom. Tough as nails but you’d be great. And I would be right there, if that's what you want. You don't want kids? That's fine too. Hell, Nat. You're as close to home as I have, I will stand by whatever you choose.”_

_"Fuck you,” she mumbled, her eyes burning and her throat closing up. The last time she’d confessed this fact about her life and who she really was underneath it all, she’d been accused of being out of her mind, for being selfish for wanting anything more. She was the worst kind of hypocrite wasn’t she? For asking from someone what she’d once told the man in bed next to her she’d never be able to give. And now she was giving him yet another reason to run not walk and he was telling her he’d support some half-baked fantasy about playing house?_

_Natasha wasn’t even sure that was her fantasy but the fact that he wasn’t letting her believe she couldn’t frustrated her. When was he going to stop giving her grace? When was he going to stop being so nice and patient?_

_“Natasha, what do you want? Whatever you want, I will do whatever I can to help you get it. You don't want kids? Fine, I don't love you for that.”_

_She'd had been staring at him, her chin on his chest when he said it and she thought to tell him to go fuck himself again for saying it. Natural reactions to people showing their love for her. Old habits die hard. Self-sabotage. Et. Al._

Natasha stared at the little plus sign, her underwear tight around her ankles, and just blinked, And then she started laughing, because it had to be fake. Even after five tests, there had to be a reason her body chemistry was pulling up false positives. And then she thought about the bottle of rum sitting on her kitchen counter and leaned back so that her head hit the behind the tank because she supposed that was certainly off limits, if the tests were true…

They weren’t, of course. That meant being in a relationship with someone. That meant being _fertile_ and the last time she’d checked her there was no way any buns were going to bake in her oven.

She knew, instantly. She knew the way she knew that she had a heart beating, that it was true and that it was some kind of fucked up consequence? Gift?

“Jesus Christ,” she cursed though she knew that wasn’t it, that this was miraculous and biblical but that Jesus had had no part in it. Her mind raced through when and where and how many weeks or months, her belly still flat enough that the only proof besides a pee stick was the steady sick, no matter the time of day. Not a Jewish Rabbi, no. Which only left a stubborn Catholic boy from Brooklyn as Culprit Most Likely.

It was a rare moment in which she had the clarity to yearn for the others, for everyone she’d lost. For her _family_. She longed to call Laura and ask her if the nausea ever let up, if she’d had it better or worse with her own babies. If it was normal to regret it or wish there was another way. She longed to just sit with everyone. A quiet coffee with Clint as the sun came up. Sitting back and watching as Wanda painted her nails, sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor like a normal girl, and then watching as Vision watched entranced.

She missed all of it. Tactical meetings and philosophical disagreements and watercooler talk. Tony and Sam and most of all…

As a girl, she would never. Never have even let herself dream about family. Attachments were the first step toward weakness, the kind of weakness that was sniffed out, the kind of weakness she spotted in other girls and the kind she’d killed for. Furtive glances between two people who’d formed quiet bonds. Someone’s small secret stash of wrappers or buttons and little tokens to symbolize intimacy and relationship and compromise. Those little sacred pieces of humanity.

It had taken her years to let herself have them.

It had taken less than a week to see everything torn apart, a hurricane in their lives that left wreckage. And she couldn’t stay to pick up the pieces, to be part of the search and rescue because she was busy running for her own freedom.

_“What happened?” she asked, pushing his door open. “You just...disappeared.”_

_He looked up and she felt her heart break into a million little pieces. It was painful, for all of them, the loss of life. Paired with yet another discourse on their authority and their apparent lack of concern for collateral damage, this time with one hundred plus countries banding together with pitchforks. She knelt in front of him, a careful hand on his knee because he was so good at the stoic face, a remnant, part of the fabric of who he was and where he’d come from._

_He’d slipped away so quickly and she knew if he was going to let himself feel anything for Lagos and the bodies and the sounds of people screaming for help, for Rumlow and yet another near death experience, that he’d do it in private._

_His forehead was creased, face darkened, and she waited for him to tell her about what he’d seen, the scenes that still replayed in his mind hours later. They’d done it before, their own debriefings afterwards. Furtive and sometimes nonverbal checks for the wounds not visible to the naked eye. Finish tending to the new recruits and then tend to each other.  He swallowed, opened his mouth to say something, and then she watched his lower lip tremble just a little, shaky breath coming out instead of words._

_Something else. Something that had nothing to do with Lagos._

_“She’s gone,” he murmured._

_And it was bad. Bad enough to deal with the stress of the Accords, even if being second-guessed was just a normal day at the office. But Natasha knew he was still vulnerable from Rumlow, from watching a man explode. Like hell that wouldn’t be something he saw every time he closed his eyes. Rumlow’d mentioned something about James and she knew he was still piecing that together, still trying to see where that fit in with the scattered clues he had. Fucking Rumlow. Natasha didn’t want to say good riddance but the world was safer with one less terrorist and if she had to cross someone off a list, she was glad it had been Rumlow._

_“She’s gone,” he repeated, his voice wavering and he handed her his phone._

_"Oh,” Natasha sighed, her heart dropping even further for him because this was not about Rumlow or James or Lagos or government bureaucracy at all._

_He buried his face in his hands and she moved so that she could sit beside him, could cradle him in her arms and wait for him to cry. He didn’t, even when his shoulders finally went slack and he’d turned to burrow himself in her arms and her neck. This was too much, the worst possible timing and all she kept thinking was “oh no, not today, not now.” As if death cared or listened when people tried bargaining._

_“I’ve got to go to London,” he said when he pulled away from her and she nodded._

_“When? The UN wants us…”_

_He looked exhausted, shaking his head no, that it wasn’t the right time to even talk or think about the UN, not anymore. Natasha stood up and went toward the kitchenette to grab him a bottle of water._

_“What do you need right now?” she asked as she handed it to him, gripping his shoulder and feeling for knots that she could knead out. He didn’t have to answer, she knew it already. To be alone. Any silence he could have before things got noisy and loud and complicated. Before he was pushed to accept and grieve._

_“Stay,” he said softly. “Just for a minute.”_

_A minute turned into hours. Sitting side by side on the edge of his bed, his long fingers touching hers tentatively as he stared at the floor. Her sitting alone as he made arrangements, watching as he ran a hand through his hair and pretended to be unaffected. Her opening up his duffel bag to throw in socks and toiletries while he took a shower because he had somewhere to be and it was all she could do to do what she could to make it a little easier for him._

_She stood in his closet and fingered the different suits. Which one was the one he wore for funerals? The dark blue one. He’d worn that for the Congressional hearing. The grey one. That one he’d worn for when a senator’s daughter’d gotten married up in Martha’s Vineyard. He’d come home and bitched about his shoes and she’d fucked him while wearing his tie._

_The black one, of course. She lifted it off the rack gingerly, looking over her shoulder to give him a weak smile when she saw he was watching her. Standing in just a towel, hair wet and needing a comb, and slight traces even still of the fight on his ribcage. She would have propositioned him at any other time, if he didn’t look so tired, so sad, so like a man who only ever lost and kept losing._

_“You’re coming, right?” he asked, walking over and reaching for the suit. He moved fast but slow, like he’d just been kicked. She nodded and he hung the suit on the rack again, pulling her close enough that she could smell the soap on his skin._

_“I don’t want to do this,” he admitted, looking down through his eyelashes. “I know I gotta…”_

_Natasha reached up to touch his collarbone and then one naked shoulder. “I’ll be there. Sam will be there. We’ll be there.”_

_He inhaled and nodded, reaching up to grab her hand, his thumb tracing the skin around her wrist. She meant to tell him that she thought he should wear the black matte tie when he leaned forward and kissed her, his cheeks wet and his lips urgent._

_“Oh,” she said again because that was all to be said. Yes, this would make sense. Making love or something like that, because that was part of who they were and how they’d always worked through bad things happening. He crowded her against clothes, insistent and needy and when she undid the knot in his towel, he apologized for being selfish. Natasha laughed and led him back to the bed, because it wasn’t like she’d never used him when she needed to fuck through her feelings._

_If she’d known it would be the last time they’d be alone together, she would have taken a little more, would have written how much she was in love with him into his skin. Would have told him, even implicitly, that they needed to slow down and talk it out and think things through rationally. That he wasn’t wrong and she wasn’t against him, but that he needed to step outside of his own perspective for just a second…_

Natasha looked at the row of stitches and then squinted at the picture on the diagram in front of her. She’d had the idea that she ought to make a hat, that maybe she’d make a few, maybe even send some anonymously to the Bartons. _Sorry your dad is gone and we’ve again fucked up your childhood, here’s a hat and some mittens._ It was something, she thought and she hoped and hoped again that Lang had had the decency to think of contingency plans the way she knew Clint had.

The loss was too great. Everyone. Too great, too much. It was all gone and even if she’d known that it might happen, it still turned her stomach and she was throwing up breakfast in the kitchen sink because she couldn’t make it to her bathroom.

“Fuck my life,” she moaned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and trying not to cry, trying to take a deep breath because even if she could stomach the self-torture, it wasn’t good for pregnancy, probably.  

“And fuck you too,” she cursed out loud, to imaginary men who weren’t standing in her living room but who nonetheless she held responsible, at least in part. She let herself get swept up in the if only’s for a quick minute before going back to the pile of yarn balls and her spot on the sofa.

“I guess I should be making a blanket or something,” she said to herself, calmly. To herself and someone else, a small someone else that she was still greatly afraid to admit might be growing inside of her.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I was excited to write this :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) OMG you guys. Holy moly, thank you for the response! ahhhhhhhhhh  
> 2) I'm trying to publish this one fast. Like fast fast fast fast BC WIPS and BC CW FEELS. I will probably post that I've updated on tumblr but I will also reblog my 'hey I've updated!" post so maybe subscribe? So you aren't like "oh shit, you posted four chapters?" (bc yes, I did. yayyyy).  
> 3) This fic is loosely inspired by a prompt given to me by @castielgurl and also [this fanart](http://sleeperagent.co.vu/post/144084955280/i-was-doing-this-all-day-because-i-promised-people) which made me so sad/happy  
> 4) short chaps, I figure like maybe 3 or 4 more updates but it will take me at least the rest of this week probably.

_ The purl stitch, as opposed to the simple knit stitch, is higher. Bumpy. After you cast on the stitches you want to load your precounted stitches onto one needle, push the other needle down into the top first stitch and then start the maddening process of looping and pulling and trying desperately not to lose your mind as the needle keeps falling out. This stitch is like knitting backwards, which feels apt as you consider the absolutely fuck-tastrophe of your life and your life choices.  _

She’d gone far enough south that she’d needed a boat to get there, far enough south that it was always cold and wet, setting in her bones. She’d stayed on the big island named after the seagulls, her intention to move to a smaller island with less inhabitants (and less witnesses) until the lifeform she was hosting started leeching every bit of energy out of her body that she had. And then she decided to stay inside where it was warm, in her little turquoise house on stilts, or to go out and walk the mossy trails along the sea of Chiloé. She could see a snowcapped volcano in the distance, which only reminded her of Japan and sushi and eating naked with chopsticks in bed, feeding a lover bits of eel roll and soy sauce and feeling like her heart was about to explode in the process. 

There was no sushi in exile, not that she’d be allowed to have it. There was seafood and paellas, if she ventured out to one of the little restaurants on the coast, and lots of multi-colored potatoes and sausage and every other food she figured she’d eat once the morning sickness eased up.  

It went without saying that she missed the people more but she missed those comforts of home. Sushi. Street hotdogs. Starbucks. Every time that she felt herself complain, she tried to remember her friends as they were cuffed and taken away. She still had her freedom and she hoped they wouldn’t hold it against her. They’d sacrificed more. 

Part of living at the end of the world was accepting its limitations. Piss-poor internet signals, only four channels on TV, and frequent enough blackouts that she kept candles and matches in the kitchen and a flashlight near her knitting basket. 

Candles she went looking for when the lights flickered out just as she was figuring out the knit/purl/knit pattern for the scarf-turned-blanket-thing she’d been working on. The click-click-click of her needles had been a soft meditation and she’d gotten lost in thought, almost sleepy, when she was plunged into darkness. 

“Shit,” she whispered and put her progress down. It was too early to go to bed but it wasn’t like there’d be a whole hell of a lot else to do and she was only a little bitter. She’d been in a trance when the power had gone out, had been  _ getting somewhere _ , and she started to wish she’d picked a big city instead. 

Natasha was about to walk to the kitchen when she heard a small ping on the kitchen window. It stopped her in her tracks. Hair raised on the backs of her arms and neck and she grabbed one of her needles, pushing one end into her sweater should she need it.  The wind picked up outside and she knew it was probably nothing but something about it set her on edge. 

Tony had told her she’d be next, that she’d face consequences, that she was a traitor. Some of that was probably true but what he didn’t know because he was too emotionally stunted to see, was that she’d never really picked a side. This wasn’t a schoolyard game of  _ Red Rover _ , where there even  _ were _ sides.  But he was right, wasn’t he? It wouldn’t be life without consequences and she had to say she was at least grateful for the head start.

And now? Now they were coming for her, weren’t they? Not that she’d go down without a fight, not now that she had so much at stake. She listened, her ears telling her that the floorboard creak was her old house and nothing more. But also telling her that these assholes had better bring their fucking A-game because there was no way in hell she’d let them take her without some serious damage. 

She tiptoed in her socks into the kitchen, eyes scanning in the darkness, and she almost missed the sound of someone behind her. The sound of breathing, of someone’s fucking heartbeat pounding like the blood that rushed through her ears. And the poor bastard wouldn’t stand a chance she decided as she spun around, locking her leg around the body behind her and slamming someone to the ground so that she could press the needle to his throat. Think first, ask questions later, because if there was one, there’d be more. Her mind raced to remember all the different places she’d hidden weapons when he let out a low groan that froze her thoughts cold. 

“Natasha, stop!” he ordered, and she dropped her needle, clattering to the floor. He sounded calm, firm, and she would have thought it a flashback to another time or a trick her eyes were playing on her in the dark, if not for his warm body below her and she shivered even though she wasn’t really cold. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, stop. It’s me.”

_ “You're slow,” she smirked as she pinned him, his arms locked into her knees and his face shocked that he’d missed her opportunity to take him down. He’d thought he’d won that time, something she’d counted on, and it had given her an unexpected exhilaration to knock him on his ass. Again. The word “surrender” a question on her lips when he’d flipped her over, wedging a thigh between her legs and strong hands making sure she couldn’t move her arms.  _

_ “I’m learning,” he grinned, bending down to kiss her quick and she laughed. God, she was so easy. It was easy to be easy when it was so good, her body wiggling against his thigh to increase the friction. She wanted to tell him she’d let him win, that she was being charitable, but he looked around quickly before letting one arm free so he could press his thumb against her even through the spandex and she knew it was a lost cause. He was learning. And also, apparently, not above cheating.  _

_ “You gonna fuck me? Or just tease?” she asked, breathless. It was still early enough in the day, but someone could come in at any time, and she could see him hesitate. They hadn’t yet had sex in public, hadn’t been intimate long enough to make it out of their apartments, and there was also the question of whether or not fucking on a sweaty gym mat was on his list of personal taboos.  _

_ “I think I should,” he said, eyes dark, and she toed at his calve because she wasn’t gonna stop him. “I fuckin’ think I should.” _

_ God, she loved it when he cursed, it happened so rarely. “Can you even imagine? The headlines? They already think you’re a bull in a china cabinet, what will they say when they find out you’ve been caught with your dick out?” _

_ “It won’t be out,” he grinned and she laughed because he was so much more boy, so much more his age than anyone realized, at least when he was given the chance. “I would plead insanity.” _

_ “Insanity,” she repeated, an eyebrow arched, and he nodded, slipping his hand into her pants and his middle and pointer making her cry out. “That will help our case. Maybe I should just sit on your face and you can say I was trying to kill you” _

_ He looked up again, eyes scanning the floor, before pushing her pants down.  “Natasha, you don’t know. You really do drive me crazy. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a way to go that’d be.” _

_ “Shut up and fuck me, you talk too much,” Natasha purred, her free hand working on his sweats and her heart pounding. She felt high, body on fire with adrenaline and need, and he didn’t even pull his pants past his ankles before he was sinking into her and she was sighing, it felt so good.  She had to bite her hand to keep from embarrassing herself, the sounds she wanted to make with every thrust. He let her other arm go so that he could plant his hands on either side of her head and she swore part of the pleasure was just watching him stop and be single-minded about something, however filthy.  _

_ “Where would you go,” she asked after, long after he’d collapsed beside her, long after they’d pulled clothes back on and she was absentmindedly tracing her lips with her fingers. “If you retired from all of this bullshit?” _

_ “Retire?” He looked over at her and laughed. She knew why, the very idea so preposterous it was like chasing a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.  _

_ “Humor me,” she smiled, thinking of her own faraway idea to go somewhere tropical. Fiji. Bali. Maybe even Dubai.  _

_ “I dunno,” he sighed and sat up. “Somewhere no one can find me, I guess. Somewhere where no one cares who I am.”  _

_ "Might as well go to Antarctica,” she suggested and he shivered, presumably at old memories.  _

_ "Not so far South,” he shook his head and paused. “I hear the clams in those little islands by the tip of Chile are good though.” _

_ Natasha hummed, filing that away as another little piece of information that no one else knew.  _

She skidded off of him like he was burning, sliding across the kitchen floor until her back was pressed against the counter because what the fuck, what the  _ fuck _ . She had a million questions, all flooding up as she tried to ground herself to the floor. How he’d found her? Where was everyone else? Why had he snuck up on her when he could just use the goddamn door?

He’d moved to the wall opposite her and she shook, half-wanting to lurch over and start punching and half-wanting to press her lips to his because he was okay and there and only exactly what she wanted and needed.  He was in all black like a fucking asshole, a trace of a smile on his lips, but his hair was still what made him stand out like a sore thumb even in a dark, dark night and she huffed. 

“Nat,” he said her name with relief. “I didn’t know if I could find you or not…”

A sob forced it’s way through her like a traitor, _how poetic_ , and she let herself say his name for the first time since she’d seen him on the airport, since she’d sacrificed even her own pride and sense of what was right, just so he’d make it out, just so he’d be free to fix what was broken. 

“Steve…”


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cry emoji insert here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) [los palafitos de Chiloé](http://www.interpatagonia.com/castro/palafitos-isla-chiloe.html) :D  
> 2) The flashback in this chapter helped greatly/prompted-ish by @elcapitan-rogers and @multi-fandom-crazy-fangirl  
> 3)Thank you to everyone who let me chat with them about this and the timing today  
> 4) AHHHH FANART what is my life this is so cool [loookkk](http://sassaspazz.tumblr.com/post/144396639737/based-on-heyfrenchfreudiana-fic-cast-off-and) by @sassaspazz 
> 
> For real. Listen listen listen. The response to this fic I'm dying this is what it's like to be dead you are all amazing i'm not worthy

_When you run out of yarn on a project, don’t panic! All you have to do is join add a new ball of yarn to the thing you are creating. Leave about six inches, which you will  knit onto using the new ball, which will be a slightly different color because you’ve changed your mind ten times while eating a one of those crunchy chocolate covered rice candy bars that you normally hate and avoid. The recipient of your project will say it’s the thought that counts._

Natasha put the small pile of pillows and blankets on the sofa next to him, almost on literal tiptoes  and completely unsure of what to say or how to feel.  It wasn’t like seeing a ghost, because she’d known he was alive and that he’d make it out okay. And a part of her had always known, she thought, that he’d come looking for her. It was why she’d gone south, if she was honest.

“It’s a nice little house,” he smiled weakly, sincerely, and she felt her body shift into business mode. Mission report, what were the damages, what is next? It felt nice and comfortable, allowing her to forget about her… condition and her temporary stint as a lonely knitter.

“It’s a _palafito_ ,” she said with pride, looking around. Decorations were sparse but it was hers.

“A palaf..right,” he looked down, ran a hand through his hair and she tried to think of what to say next, to fill in the space that had grown between them.  Not tension, exactly, as much as exhaustion, the list of things that had happened in such a short time so very long.

“Report on the rest?” she asked, her voice cracking only a little before she could reel it back in.  He looked good, like he’d finally had time to sleep and start grieving the losses, and she wondered where she fit in that, if at all.  They’d all but surrendered once Steve and James had escaped, arrested and shackled like terrorists. Her intel said it had gotten only worse.

“Safe,” he met her eyes and she breathed, knees weak and a praise of thanks on her lips. “Laura and the kids know, they're okay. Laura’s working with Lang’s family right now to open up communication, just so they can at least check in… His little girl. I made it clear she’ll be taken care of.”

 _God_. She brought a hand up to her mouth, only half listening as he debriefed her because she’d spent weeks thinking of how they’d make it work, knowing Clint would move heaven and earth for Laura, that not a second went by he wouldn’t be pacing because Lila and Cooper had already missed so much, because he’d already swore up and down on his knees he wouldn’t miss another child’s first birthday party…

“They’ve all sacrificed a lot,” Steve said as he stood up and walked over to her. “I won’t let them sacrifice more than they have to. I’m going to see if Sharon can’t help make some connections too. Extra security, safe houses. Whatever they need.”

Natasha nodded, remembering Peggy Carter’s niece. That was good, it was good to know her and have that connection. She’d been a great agent at SHIELD and having her as an insider was the only way James had made it out at all. James…

“Barnes,” she sputtered, her stomach twisting suddenly as her own memories flashed forward and he looked down. It was a look that said a lot and she thought about what a shame it was to lose him, for Steve to lose him again, however it had happened. They’d deserved better, both men, after so long.

“He’s alive,” Steve frowned. “But, he...the threat level was too high. He said he wasn’t safe.”

He kept talking and she filled in the blanks. Another sacrifice, another loss, and she wondered if there was anything she could have said to change the _soldat’s_ mind. She’d known him once, wasn’t sure if she would have tried. There was something freeing about choosing after all.

“How long are you staying?” she asked carefully, motioning toward the couch. Not that she didn’t want him to stay but things had changed hadn’t they? She wasn’t sure they’d ever be the same, ever have the same trust... her hand moved to her stomach and she wondered if he would have fought for her the way he’d fought for James.

“Dunno,” he said carefully. “It’s complicated, isn’t it? I don’t want to take advantage of T’Challa’s good graces but I don’t want to leave Bucky… and what if we are needed…”

 _What if I need you?_ She wondered, biting her tongue and wishing he could read her mind.

“Or you come back with me, Nat,” Steve said and she knew that it was something he’d hoped for, that he had deliberated on before finding her.

He expected her to say yes, to have her bags packed and by the door before morning, didn’t he? With no idea how things had changed, even more than the shambles he was already piecing together. Natasha didn’t know, her mind unable to think clearly and all of her automatic defenses up high and betraying her.

_It was better to pretend, to not tell him. It would make things worse. A child would just be another target and safer with her than with them both, if she could fade into the shadows, cleaning up her own messes._

“Nat, I need you,” he said gently and she hugged her body, feeling suddenly tired and throat dry.

“I need to think,” she admitted, watching as his face fell, something she wished she didn’t keep seeing. She started to reach out for his shoulder when her stomach lurched, the stress catching up with her and then she was ducking down and moving past him for the bathroom.

_She swayed slightly, standing against the railing barefooted and feeling the wind against her face. The champagne had gone straight to her head, aided by the pinch of Asgardian booze Thor had allowed her and the lack of filter made her dizzy, giggles and hiccups escaping when she let them._

_It was a celebration. A new year. Time for some fucking changes. New hair, a trip to one of Stark’s islands at the end of the month. Maybe even a tattoo, now that she was an Avenger and her body was her own. Maybe even flying lessons, a thought that had her laughing to herself, because then she wondered if Tony would let her borrow a suit and the idea of flying around in all of that metal…_

_“Careful,” someone called out and she looked over her shoulder. Captain Rogers to the rescue, all plaid and khaki, as if she was a damsel in distress. He gave her a sweet smile, undoubtedly concerned to see the Russian spy standing as if she might topple over the edge of the thirty-first floor like she was ready to end it all and she smirked._

_“Happy New Year!” she called out, raising her arms and again feeling the way the wind almost lifted her into the air. He took a few quick strides toward her and she looked him up and down, her skin buzzing. Clint was at home, it had been awhile since… she could feel her standards lower just a little as the good Captain held out his hand. He looked like he’d never even been past first base let alone holiday office party hanky-panky and she laughed. Virgin or no, she’d had her eye on him sober. Had watched him, so polite and straight and every bit the gentlemen his mother must have raised him to be._

_Would he even dare, with someone with her history? Her personal life was a mess even if she didn’t count all she’d done and had to do professionally and he was fucking white as snow._

_“Ma’am. Agent Romanoff… I’d feel a lot better if you’d come down…”_

_His Adam’s apple bobbed and she shivered,  looking up to his pretty pink lips. He hadn’t been kissed at midnight, not unless a smack on the cheek from Tony counted, and she figured he must be on his way home when he saw her. Not that she’d kissed anyone either. She bit her lip and nodded, holding her hand so that her fingertips grazed his._

_And then she tripped on her gown, a stupid green number that was a lot longer when her heels were on the ground instead of on her feet, and fell forward with an “oof!”_

_He caught her of course and she clutched his shirt on instinct, looking up to make sure he wasn’t angry. He swallowed and opened his mouth, face instantly flustered but eyes dark like he definitely appreciated the situation at hand. Would it be his first kiss since the forties? She licked her lips, feeling almost predatorial, because she was determined to find out…_

_“We should get you inside,” he said quickly, helping her to her feet and putting instant space between them. “You’re downright sauced, I’m sure you’d do well to have some water.”_

_Natasha nodded, suddenly speechless and taken aback. Fuck, charmed because she’d given him a green light and an open window and he was leading her back inside for water._

_“I’m a mess,” she sighed, feeling lightheaded and even a little bit nauseous, and he laughed._

_“Aren’t we all? It’d be an honor to help you with yours tonight.”_

_Fucking hokey as hell but she giggled to cover up the swoon. He’d do fine, make someone real happy, and she distantly remembered a few girls in the offices below who might be nice dates if he was available, clear awareness he’d have to be suicidal to not steer clear of her._

“Nat,” she heard him call through the bathroom door and she looked in the mirror. They had to talk, sooner or later, whether she stayed or she went with him. Her heart pounded and she cursed at her reflection. She was pale, dark circles under her eyes, and so tired. She wanted to go home, to go back, and she whimpered knowing she couldn’t.

When she opened the door, he was standing right outside, clearly concerned and her heart broke into a million little pieces, too many to ever be able to collect and glue back together.

“I missed you,” she said with a tremble. He held open his arms and she sighed, trembling more when he held her for the first time in what felt like forever. They slid down to the floor and she pressed her cheek against his sweater, comforted enough to let herself weep. He wept alongside her, not like a dam broken but still the steady flow of someone who’d been holding back for far too long, and the house quiet save the sounds of soft tears and sighs and the wind howling outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is when people start talking and being honest :) I am thinking after this, maybe two more updates?


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was painful. I tried to add smut to balance it out. I will make a happy ending, I promise. I just. Have a lot of feels about that kiss and how messy that makes everything. Dammit, Steve.

_Knots are an inevitable part of knitting, because of the way yarn is manufactured. Your first instinct is to curse the yarn when you find a knot, because knots are assholes. However, it is perfectly acceptable to knit the knot into your scarf/baby blanket disaster, because the knot itself dissolves into the project and no one is the wiser._

Her sleep was fitful and when she dreamed, it was of pushing a stroller in New York City. In the dream, she  passed the deli and the pharmacy and the street vendors she always walked by on her way to her office. Just as she stopped at a stoplight, she stooped down to check on the baby, a scream ripped through her body. The stroller was empty.

It was enough to wake her up, to unnerve her even though she knew logically she was being stupid and that the dream wasn’t real, and she tossed and turned for awhile before giving up to go for her knitting.

Which was how she found herself knitting in her chair while Steve slept on the sofa beside her. She counted stitches silently, her eyes on his face and the way his lips parted and his chest rose and fell. As the sun rose, she rehearsed how she’d tell him, imagining all of the different ways he’d respond.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t the life they were supposed to have, it wasn’t a life she was even sure she wanted. A baby and then what? Love and marriage?  Those weren’t things for her or him, not in their line of work and she only had to look at Clint and Scott Lang as proof for why.  All she had to do was connect the dots in her dream to recognize that babies and fieldwork didn’t work, that something would have to give. The idea of caring for a child, making sure the child was safe and protected not just from falling or swallowing small toys but also kidnapping and aliens, gave her panic because even if Steve was a good man, she wasn’t necessarily a good woman.

“Since when do you knit?” he asked, eyes still closed and voice gravelly with sleep and she smiled to herself, pausing to look over her progress. It wasn’t perfect but it looked like something.

“I think I’m getting good at it,” she said, the irony that she was actively refusing to accept the life growing inside her and what it might mean while knitting not lost on her. “It’s relaxing.”

“You need to fix that stitch though,” he said all too casually. “Or else it’s all gonna unravel…”

Natasha bit her lip to hold back a smile. “Are you going to help me with my knitting, Steve?”

He shrugged, sheepish. “I’m not an expert…”

She moved so that she was sitting beside him, laying her project across both their laps. “Be my guest.”

He fingered one of the small holes in her baby blanket, carefully and as respectfully as he did with everything else, and she sighed, feeling unsteady.

“My mom,” he explained. “You should’ve seen the sweaters, Nat. But it was handy when I was in Europe.”

Natasha bit her lip not sure what to do except listen, her knee against his as he talked. The door was open, right there, for her to tell him what she hadn’t yet had the courage to say out loud even to herself. All she had to do was plant her feet on the ground and be honest. _Remember before? Remember how we were and what that felt like and how good it was? Would you believe me if I told you that all of those small, meaningless times we did what we did, we'd created a life?_

“Are you okay?” he said abruptly, interrupting her thoughts and she smiled, her heart hammering in her throat. “Nat, are you taking care of yourself?”

“What happens now, Steve?” she quickly deflected. “You’re here and you found me but then what?”

“I told you. Come back with me,” he answered. “Unless you are retiring.”

“Retiring,” she snorted, rolling her eyes. “Right. I’m going to stay here and retire. Be a quietly anti-social cat lady who knits.”

“You could find a nice man,” he supplied and she met his eyes.

“And what about us?” she asked, grimacing at the pronoun usage. _Us_ implied a preexisting _us_ , something worth discussion. “Are we still friends?”

As if _friends_ was code for something else.

He looked down and she drew in a sharp breath because the answer was apparent, perhaps because he hadn't gotten over her decision to side with Tony, she wasn't sure.

“Things...are different.”

Natasha tipped her head to the side, searching his face for what that meant. Different because she’d fought against him, even when she’d proven her loyalty? Different because he needed space and time?

“Agent Carter…”

He wouldn’t even look her in the eye and she started laughing. Peggy’s niece, _of course_ . He looked ashamed, as though it was something he didn’t want to tell her and she laughed to hold back tears because he didn’t owe her anything. Sharon Carter? Natasha herself had tried setting them up, and for good reason. Sharon was a good woman. A _nice_ woman. A woman with a future…

_“Why don’t you find a nice woman?” she asked, a smile on her lips as they swayed with the soft music in his apartment.  It felt so… unbelievably domestic. Takeout on the table and one of Sam’s playlists setting the mood. He’d once told her he didn’t dance but she’d taught him the basics, enough that when the right song had come on, he’d dropped his food to hold out his hand. She’d only protested for show, her stomach in butterflies as he clutched her waist and kissed against her hairline._

_“Natasha,” he groaned because they’d had the conversation before. “Not tonight.”_

_“One of these days, you’re going to get sick of me,” she sighed and he squeezed her hand. They weren’t defining it, whatever they were, but she’d obsessed over the idea. It was better, wasn’t it? Helping him find his match so that she didn’t have to wear the weight of inevitably breaking his heart. He was so patient and she wondered if that made it worse. Asking if they could make things official but then honoring her space, accepting her decision to not make things complicated._

_“Natasha,” he kissed her softly. “Oh Natasha, I wish you knew…”_

_She knew what he wanted to say, even if she didn’t want him to say it out loud. So she tugged at his bottom lip with her teeth, playful so as to shift the tension in the room. “Sure, well. I guess a nice girl wouldn’t do this.”_

_“A nice girl wouldn’t what?” he teased. “Kiss me? You think you’re the first?”_

_Her fingers found the zipper to his pants and she raised her eyebrow, a heat between her legs because they hadn’t been intimate for long but long enough that she could feel herself getting addicted. And she wanted more. Even if it was bad, even if they couldn’t be what he needed or deserved, because she wanted more. More of his arms, his mouth, the way he smelled that made her want to weep, the way he challenged her and made her feel safe and like what she wanted was possible._

_“A nice girl,” she said with a wink as she pulled him out, holding back a whimper at how hot, how heavy he was. “Steve, I think you know that I’m not a nice girl. A nice girl would never spend the whole day thinking about Captain America, not the way I do…”_

_“How do you think of me?” he asked, his voice raspy and thick as she held him in her hand, as she ran a her thumb across the slit and watched him tighten, hands in fists as he deliberated on what to do._

_“Affectionately,” she said, not taking her eyes away from his as she led him to the counter, as she knelt down and took him in her mouth. He all but whimpered and she tabled all of the thoughts she had about him looking for anyone else, because she really had thought about him all day, had thought about the different ways she wanted to debauch him._

_“Nat,” he moaned, gripping the countertop so hard she heard it crack. “I don’t want anyone else…”_

_“That’s what you say when a girl like me is blowing you,” she smirked, running her tongue along his length, every cell in her body on fire because she was giving him something he’d remember, something that separated her from anyone else._

_“Nat, I don’t wanna come this way,” he huffed, pulling as gently as she thought he could on her arm and she almost ignored him, wanting to control it this way, wanting to remind him of why she was special. But she ached, needed to be touched, and he knew it, didn’t he? She let him pull back and slide to the floor, his kisses sloppy and desperate, let him press his mouth to her throat and the tops of her breasts as she slid her own pants down and off. She ached and he felt right, felt like just what she needed right then. When he touched her, it was reverent, like she deserved it, like he owed it to her. She reached up behind him for the small bottle of olive oil she’d used not thirty minutes earlier for actual food, slicking him up so that she could sit above him, take him in and stop thinking, and he hit his head on the cupboard door, his grip on her ass tight when he was inside completely._

_“You’re gonna leave bruises,” she said as she moved her hips, not a trace of admonishment in her voice. He looked up, apologetic, and she laughed. “Go right ahead.”_

_“Nat,” he pulled her tight, flipping her so that he was above her and driving into her hard enough that those bruises were the least of her worries. “Oh Nat, I don’t want anyone else…”_

_She laughed, the things people say in flagrante delicto, lifting her knees to bracket him inside._

_And then he buried his hands in her hair, forcing her to focus on his face, forcing her to look. “I mean it. I don’t want anyone else….”_

_She should have said something, done something to divert or distract. But she was a fool, her judgment clouded by the utter lack of communication between head and heart. So she nodded instead, leaning into his palms even as she bucked her hips. She felt so lost, so desperate, but also so anchored, as if she’d forgotten it could ever be this good…_

Natasha pulled the blanket onto her lap, her stomach lurching as she tried to think of the right words. Sharon, Peggy’s niece. Things were “different”.

“Who is she to you, Steve?” She tried to put on a mask, tried to make her voice light because he deserved happiness where he found it. A mask not put on tight enough because he frowned, crossed his arms over his chest like he was telling her something he was uncomfortable to admit out loud.

“I don’t know, Natasha. A mistake? A dick move? Nothing but something,” he fumbled for words and she shook her head, not sure she wanted to listen.

“Have you called her?” she steadied her voice. “I don’t know how dating works when one half of the couple is an international fugitive.”

“No, that’s not what I want…” Steve said quickly, forcefully. “No, I kissed her and I shouldn’t have but it’s not…”

Natasha stood up, her stomach weak, because she didn’t think she could bear to listen. He didn’t owe her an explanation, not really, not if they weren’t more than close friends.

“I shouldn’t have, Nat. She was vulnerable. Christ, Peggy was…” He sounded so guilty, tortured and she knew he’d thought about it, about telling her. She thought that made it only worse.

“What do you want, Steve?” She asked, ready to throw her hands in the air. It hit her suddenly, anger and bitterness and she wished he’d never come, never found her. “Why are you talking to me when you should be talking to her?”

“Because I want you, Natasha,” he said, as if it was obvious. “Because I’ve always only wanted you.”

“But you kissed her,” she shook her head. “Why? I don’t even want to know why. I don’t care.”

“Liar,” he stood up, jaw clenched. “Don’t tell me you don’t care. You lie. ”

Natasha flinched but held her ground. “We aren’t anything to each other, Steve. Why are you here?”

“Natasha, you say that but it’s only ever been you. How could I.. how could I not come for you?”

“If it’s me, why are you hitting on Peggy Carter’s niece before she’s even in the goddamn ground?” Natasha seethed, the words falling from her mouth before she could reel them back in.

“Because you weren’t there,” he blurted, face flushed in frustration and she wanted to laugh and weep all at once.

“So she’s my replacement?” Natasha couldn’t hide how much that hurt, not even with all of her training.

“Like Bruce was mine?” Steve answered back, looking down as soon as he’d said it, as if he’d known it was a low blow.

Natasha drew in a sharp breath, taking a step back and his face changed, from angry to mournful.

“Natasha,” he said her name softly, his voice cracked. “It’s only ever been you.”

She looked away, not wanting to hear anymore, not wanting to admit that the feelings were mutual. That they’d always been mutual, that she loved him in ways she was sure weren’t possible.

“I can’t, Steve,” she protested because if she kept going, she was going to tell him everything. That she cared, that she loved him and had always loved him, that somehow he was the father of someone miraculous inside her, a small body with a heart and a soul being knitted together itself. “I can’t finish this conversation right now.”

She left him standing in her living room, retreating to the bathroom, the shower running over her as she cried, feeling more lost and desperate than ever. The consolation, she reminded herself, was the life inside her.  Even if the idea of it was still vague and unsettling, the proof was there, below her navel that she might be able to love someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olive oil was brought up in romanogers line chat. I never thought I would use here. But you know. Drink every time I write kitchen sex...


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the nice things chapter. because my otp deserves nice things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ideally one more chapter after this to wrap things up. I have been given ideas for a sequel ;__; Idk Idk Idkkkk but I have laid the groundwork here if that ever did pan out...
> 
> With thanks to pretty much anyone who said they loved this. I asked a few people if I should be dramatic and everyone said yes so this is their fault. Also, I've had babies but I'm not a dr so I think this is like extreme. But mayyybe it would be extreme for a supersoldier baby.

_At some point, you may find that you need to start all over. The yarn is tangled, the stitches aren’t uniform or the project keeps twisting, and the only thing to be done is to rip the stitches and start again. As you unravel your project, be sure to roll it back into a ball.  Alternatively, unravel it into a tangle of yarn that you toss into the trash whilst cursing the very existence of men. It’s what women since before the time of Christ have done._

In the end, she’d let him go.

He’d stood there with James in the airport hangar, ready to fight her if necessary, his expression resolute and maybe a little betrayed, and she had let him go. More than that, she’d given him the head start by slowing down T’Challa. She’d sacrificed her own freedom so that he finish what he’d started.

She wondered, when she’d been alone in exile, if he realized that when he met her eyes as he left. If he realized what she was giving up for him.

The Red Room had many rules, some rules you didn’t even learn till you’d broken them and were being corrected. Rules that kept you alive. Don’t trust anyone except yourself. Don’t get sloppy. Don’t look back. Don’t get attached.

For him, she’d broken every rule. Because she’d met his eyes then and made the choice, hadn’t she?

She thought about this as she pressed her palms to the cold bathroom tile and tried to hold down a piece of toast, a feat that looked unlikely. The nausea had increased, she figured a correlation to stress, but to the point that she was having trouble eating at all. It was a very small blessing, the way she looked at it, because feeling sick kept her in the bathroom, kept her away from Steve. Kept them both away from talking, not that the situation wasn’t already cut and dry.

He had not yet said how long he was staying. Neither had she, though she figured for long enough to birth the parasite growing in her body and long enough for her to weigh all of the options she had. If he left, which would make things easy, she thought maybe she’d be alright to just keep things secret. Logically, the last thing he needed in his life was a reason to be tied down. Logically, an infant was more than just an extra mouth to feed, it was a liability. An achilles heel for Steve, because it was almost textbook villain. Find the super soldier’s only heir and conduct any number of experiments to see if the serum could somehow be replicated. Zemo had broken the Avengers apart with just a grainy video image of James, what could be done if the secret love child of Captain America and the Black Widow was taken away?

Natasha moaned, her mouth parched and a dull and consistent pain between her temples. The easy way, she thought as she moved to sit with her back against the bathroom wall, was to hold the news in. Steve’s entire life was about losing. Losing people and missed opportunities and getting stuck in situations he didn’t sign up for.  But ultimately, the reason she wanted to hold her secret in was the same reason she’d let him and James pass.

She loved him. And he had to move on, with a firm foot in his own choices and as captain of his own destiny.  With Sharon Carter or alone, as a fugitive or fighting someone’s fights, but wholly his choice.

A baby was dangerous. For her too but she’d be able to handle it, had trained her whole life for living in the shadows after all. And just as dangerous as a baby would be, it was also equally dangerous feeling like the only reason he was by her side at all was because of a baby he didn’t ask for.

“Nat,” she heard him call out from the other side of the bathroom door and she sighed, the sour taste still heavy in her mouth. “Nat, are you alright? I know you don’t want to see me right now and that’s fine...”

It was the first thing he’d said to her since she’d ended their last conversation. She eyed the door and sighed, feeling tired and sicker than she had in years, her skin sticky and her eyes watering. All she needed was a glass of water and she’d be alright, she’d tough it out. “I’m fine, Steve. Just some bad takeout.”

“Can I get you something?”

She listened to the concern in his voice, likely because he’d never seen her get sick, and she let herself smile only a little.

“I’m okay, Steve,” she said as she hoisted herself up and started washing her hands. It didn’t feel like a lie, not entirely. She _would_ be okay. Whatever happened and whether or not he found out.

Natasha waited until she’d heard him walk away before opening the door, her head throbbing just enough as she walked back to her knitting.  It was as she sat on the chair next to her knitting basket and picked up her tangled mess of a baby blanket that she thought about telling him.

On the hangar, she’d chosen him. She’d followed her heart over her own family and even when she’d never been able to say she loved him, she chose him then and let him go.  Following her heart. Natasha wasn’t even sure what that meant, except on paper the kind of thing people write in cards. It had always been about trusting her instincts before, about choosing the side that kept her alive because the truth could always be manipulated. In the airport, it meant remembering all the good about him and all the ways she loved him and remembering that she trusted him. It meant not wanting to bring him down, not wanting to be the reason he fell because she couldn’t bear the thought. She’d told him, even before they’d started throwing punches, that he could still stand down, the _I love you, don’t do this_ on the tip of her tongue.

And now, here was another chance. Yet another chance to think about whether or not she could bare to be the reason he hurt, even after he’d hurt her.

She felt like the worst kind of asshole for loving him. It was contradictory to every part of her. Contradictory to the Red Room rules. Contradictory to what she felt she fought for. He’d kissed Agent Carter. He was not for her. But she still loved him, still ached. And even if she loved him and he’d finally wizened up and moved on, there was a baby inside her.

If she didn’t tell him, she’d only keep hurting him.

Knowing that she was going to have to be honest with him was different than actually knowing what to say, made worse when she realized the tangle of her blanket wasn't getter better. Natasha grimaced, her stomach cramping slightly, and started the slow process of unraveling and undoing her work, her mind as knotted up as the yarn.

When he returned, bags of groceries in hands, she laughed. Because of course Steve would see her empty cupboards and start the process of turning her home into something more habitable. She put her knitting down and stood up.  Even if the idea of anything more than water might make her sick, she could at least help him put things away.

What Natasha hadn’t expected was the lightheaded feeling as she stood, woozy before she even took a step. This, she thought briefly, was what happened when one’s body became the unwilling host in a completely parasitic and unfair relationship. She grabbed the arm of her chair for support and closed her eyes.

“Nat, do you have pot for pasta?” he asked, standing in the doorway and looking like nothing was wrong, like he hadn’t just broken her heart into a million pieces. _Clueless schmuck_ , she wanted to say, and when he blinked she wondered if maybe she _had_ said it.  She shook her head, gasping like she was suddenly starving for air when really she was trying not to lose her balance and there wasn’t really anything left to throw up, so she supposed she should be feeling better…

“Nat,” he called her name, repeated it, his voice loud and then far away and then loud again.

“Need to lay down,” she croaked, shivering when she felt her knees give way, when she realized she wasn’t standing straight because he was holding her. “Fuck, Steve. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck…”

“Nat, what happened?” he looked at her and she thought he looked angry? Or confused, she couldn’t tell, but she turned her head to retch and his arms felt so good. He picked her up, something she only half protested because she felt so weak, and these arms… this was home, this was where she belonged.

“Nat... hospital.”

“Fuck you,” she babbled, dry heaving and he took her to the little yellow car she drove around town. “Fuck you, I love you.”

It was the last thing she remembered.

_“Are you gonna arrest me?”_

_She shook her head, wanted to weep least of all because her ears were still ringing from the blast and she had a skinned knee that needed patching up. What was he saying? She was only trying to keep him safe…_

_“Arrest you… Steve,” she wished she could shake him. Hold him down in the bedroom and just get him to listen and grieve and cry and think. “No, but someone will, Steve…”_

_“They’re gonna shoot to kill, Nat,” he said and she knew then he had no option, that even when he had options, there was only one choice. Her heart sank and she thought, this._ This is when I should tell him because I’m not gonna get another chance _. But she bit her tongue, rational thought telling her that it wasn’t the right time, that it wouldn’t stop him or stop the police or keep anyone safe or alive._

_***_

Natasha held onto bits and pieces of fuzzy, dreamlike consciousness. She remembered the bed. The needle pushed into her vein and Steve holding her hand. Steve, bless him, using shitty Spanish to talk to doctors.

“Barbara Grant...if you’re her husband…”

“Yes, of course…”

“How long... “

“I don’t know, I was... away…”

Echoes. Hushed whispers. _Baby_ . Dehydration. Did you know... _Beep, beep, beep_ … heartbeat’s good…

“Nat, why…”

“...stay for observation…”

“Nat, I’ve always loved you…”

***

_It was stupid, and silly and delightful, making out with him in her car. It wasn't something she thought she would ever do, not seriously, not if not for work. God, the kind of thing kids did. But doing it with him also made it thrilling.  Scary as hell, like jumping out of a plane. One hundred percent free falling, his hands cupping her breasts underneath her top as the radio played some stupid pop song about love and she rubbed against him just because it was like fire in her veins and she couldn’t think if she didn’t get off five minutes ago._

_They’d driven out for burgers. Burgers and to clear the air because of yet another mission in which he’d done something reckless and she’d thought he might die. He didn’t, of course, not for lack of trying, but she couldn’t get the sight of him diving into the building before it collapsed out of her mind. Nor could she forget what it felt like to pull chunks of brick and concrete rubble off the ground, her heart in shards that stabbed at her throat and her shaky hands bloodied because she had to find him and throttle him for doing this again._

_He’d made it, of course, smudged with soot and his body shielding three kids, and she’d wanted to be angry but then she just wanted to weep because he was okay and alive._

_Post-medical and post-clean up, she’d offered to take him for burgers because she needed to tell him how scared she’d been, if there was a way to do so without actually telling him. Because even if they weren’t a thing, he was someone to her and had been for some time. When would he stop? He didn’t even have to anymore. He didn’t have to be so stupid. Wanda could have moved those kids out, someone could have done something, it was like he had a death wish._

_“I’m sorry,” he said, eyebrows knitted together. “I just couldn’t let it happen.”_

_She knew that, of course, but it didn’t stop the pain in her heart so she pulled over and unbuckled her seatbelt because goddammit, he had to know how much he meant and why it wasn’t okay, why one apologetic word wasn’t enough…_

_“You don’t know,” she said through gritted teeth, tears burning her eyes as she gripped his hair so he would look at her. “I thought you were…”_

_He kissed her hard, a thumb over one traitorous tear and she thought maybe she’d tell him, because it suddenly felt like a clanging bell in her head._ I love you, Steve Rogers, stop trying to die because I am so fucking in love with you, I love you, I love you.

_“Nat, I won’t,” he held her gaze. “It’s my job. It’s our job, you know this.”_

_The words were right there but she held them back, shutting up the clanging bell by instead wrapping her fist around his dick because she could at least show some emotion there, watching with some measure of satisfaction as he closed his eyes and arched into her, his own fingers working their way into her jeans. They had time, she was going soft, they had time. She told herself this as he pushed two fingers between her labia, when he was being sneaky with his thumb, controlling her. I love yous could wait for another kind of urgency, the one that said oh no, two fingers hooked there is not full enough, and she could feel him, pulsing hot in her hand…_

_“Tell me what you want,” he whispered in her ear and she hummed, pressing against him, nearly forgetting her own job as it were. “Tell me and I’ll do it…”_

I love you. I love you. Let me love you. _She whimpered and shook her head, moving her hands to her pants so she could push them down. “I want to be full. I want you inside me. I want to be fucked until I forget, Steve.”_

_None of that was a lie, not entirely, and he gave a laugh like he was dying, the sound of his belt unbuckling like fucking music to her ear. Silly love confessions, those could wait, surely she was better than telling a man she was in love with him while he fingered her in her car._

_“Fuck,” she sighed, eyes closed and head thrown back as they moved together in the same old rhythm.“ This is getting messy.”_

His face was the first she saw when she woke up.

She opened her eyes, mind doing a quick body scan. Headache, fuzzy mouth, tired, and she noted with dismay the saline IV drip she was plugged into. And then, Steve. Sitting on a small plastic chair across from her, looking big and out of place, his head in his hands and shoulders hunched tight. He looked deep in thought and it took her a quick second to figure out why.

_The baby._

Her hands pressed against her abdomen and she scrambled to sit up because if she was in the hospital, something had happened. And if something had happened…

He looked up, his eyes so big with concern and she searched them for any indication that the worst had happened. He had to know now, that choice ripped from her hands, and she thought she might die if she’d managed to lose the one thing of him that was also hers…

“The baby is fine, Natasha,” he said softly. His face paled as he said it and she thought she saw the start of something on his mouth, not quite a smile but not anger. Which made no sense at all and she folded her arms across her chest because she suddenly felt cold.

“You were dehydrated. The morning sickness they said. Hyperemeis something-something…”

She blinked and looked down, still not sure how to read him or the situation. “I feel awful.”

“Nat…” he moved so he was sitting on the edge of the bed instead of so far away and she waited for him to start yelling, to ask her how she dared lie.

“It’s only ever been you,” she admitted carefully, hoping that this would at least soften the blow. He looked into her eyes as a question and she kept talking, hoping he would at least believe her. “Yours, I mean. Of course it yours, you’re the only one.”

“Nat, how is this possible?”

He didn’t look angry, he looked confused. He reached for the hand currently poked by an IV and ran his thumb parallel. “Nat, how?”

“I don’t know. I wish I knew,” she said, even if she in some ways preferred not knowing, preferred the idea that logic was conquered even here. How everything she knew about faith and seeing to believe was bullshit and maybe magic was real after all.

“And you were pregnant this whole time? At the airport, Nat?”

Natasha shook her head and swallowed. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know until I was already here…”

“Nat, you could’ve...I could’ve hurt you or… Any one of us…”

“Would it have made a difference?” she interrupted. “If I’d known and told you? If I’d said to you and Tony, hey guess what. I’m knocked up, let’s stop fighting now.”

“I don’t know. Maybe!” he answered desperately, and she knew he’d already wondered the same thing. “I don’t know, Nat. But it would have made things more complicated. Can you imagine if Zemo knew? Christ, Nat…”

Natasha took in a deep breath, her mind tired. “He won’t, Steve.”

“But someone might!” he huffed and that was the closest thing to anger she’d seen yet. “Natasha, what if...Natasha, you passed out and I didn’t know what was happening. And then they said you and the baby were fine? Natasha, I didn’t even know there was a baby. The shock was all over my face and the doctor knew it but he let me pretend anyway, because he figured I was just a stupid husband whose wife wasn’t being honest.”

Natasha felt defensive, even as she empathized with how lost he must have felt. “I was going to tell you.”

“Natasha, your ID. Barbara _Grant_ ? I’m not smart but even I can pick up on that. _Grant_? Oh, Nat. And you did this before you knew you were pregnant with… with our baby?” he looked exasperated and she ached because there was no way to untangle everything neatly. She touched his arm and he covered her hand with his own.

“Natasha, you told me that staying together was more important than how and I’ve been such a goddamn fool…”

“Don’t,” she charged. “Don’t start apologizing because there is a baby. We all deserve better. You didn’t ask for this and I’m not standing in your way.”

“My way? Natasha, why do you think I’m here?”

She looked over at the charts hanging from the little basket on the wall. Two patients, two heartbeats. Whatever happened, she loved him. Even if he left, she loved him and would love him by raising their child.

“Natasha, I’m hollow. Bucky is gone. Everyone. The Avengers. My life. It’s all gone. It’s in safehouses and fumbling for any idea of what to do next and I am hollow. I am hollow without you. I came for you because I am in love with you, because I need you.”

“Steve,” she sighed, wishing she could memorize the way he looked at her forever.

“Nat, my life is in shambles. Even when I try to move on, I can’t because of you.”

She nodded, overwhelmed and he continued.

“You can’t tell me I don’t matter to you, Natasha. You can’t because I know it’s a lie. I know in your name, I know in the fact that you are carrying this baby. And I knew before, I’ve always known. You let me go, Natasha. You can lie until you are blue in the face but I know.”

“I hate you,” she said, tears spilling and hurting her case. She tried wiping them away with the back of her hands, feeling sloppy and unkempt and it was only a matter of time before things got snotty and even more embarrassing. Instead of recoiling, he sniffed and grabbed her hand and he looked like he was maybe _pleading_ with her. “I hate you, Steve Rogers.”

“Then tell me to go,” he said, holding her hand against his heart and she watched as any resistance left her body and waltzed right out the door. “Tell me.”

She had let him go once. She had followed her heart then, regretting it only because it was so counterintuitive. And here he was, telling her he loved her, the whole scene a crazy deja vu.

“You love me, Natasha. You love me and you can’t say it because you are afraid but you do or you wouldn't…”

“Do you ever stop talking? Shut up, Steve,” she interrupted him, moving her hand over his mouth because he was about to ruin every bit of resolve she had for a love confession that she was certainly fucking up. His eyes opened wide but she could feel the smirk develop against her palm.  “I love you. I have from the beginning, from the very beginning. I love you even if you leave and we don’t work…”

He mumbled something, muffled under her hand, and she moved it quickly so that he could talk.

“Don’t you think I have a say in this? You act like I’m leaving. I’m not going anywhere, Natasha Romanoff. So tell me more about how much you love me…”

She groaned, pulling him down so she could kiss him before he finished talking. It surprised her how easy it was, how easily she stopped thinking about all of their wounds and the way they hurt and had hurt each other. The past was there, muffled background noise, because it was suddenly like they’d never stopped. The same feelings, the same lips, the same way she felt warm and complete when he covered her with his arms and moved so that he was laying almost atop her.

“I’m going to hurt you,” he said, shifting and nearly pulling back, his gaze on her stomach. “I don’t want to hurt you or the baby.”

She moved so that he could lay beside her, his legs and feet falling off the small hospital bed. How unexpectedly soothing it was letting him hold her, relaxing into him as the exhaustion took over.  She took his hand and moved it to her belly, and he shook all over, whispering again his love for her, telling her she couldn’t get rid of him and that he was like gum underneath the bottom of her shoe. And even feeling sick and like death, a quiet panic setting in that this pregnancy would never end and she’d never feel normal again, she also felt something she thought she’d long since lost. A home not demolished or destroyed after all, not in flames like she’d thought, but rather just dormant and waiting for the main players to put their egos and fear and self-sabotage aside. It wasn’t just what she wanted or what she was afraid of anymore, she had someone else’s interests to consider. Steve kissed the top of her head and she tried not to purr. Of all the brave things she’d ever done, loving him out loud was the bravest.


	8. Eight

***

_The last step in knitting is weaving in your ends. This eliminates random yarn tails from hanging on your project, which can make your project look unfinished. Use a fat tapestry needle to weave the ends in, ignoring the fact that it looks nothing like the picture because you’ve made something with your own two blood-stained hands.You’ve made something good with those hands._

It took Natasha two months to feel normal again.

Two months of nausea and medication, of spending the day in bed with blankets tacked over the windows to block out light because she was dizzy and weak. Two months of sipping water and ginger ale and peppermint tea and eating crackers and sometimes not even those stayed down.

If the doctors didn’t stress this was something that happened sometimes, she’d be convinced that the only way she was pregnant at all had to be through Loki or some kind of alien intervention. What other reason was there for the days of sick? And she was supposed to do this for another five months or so? Of course, spawn of Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff wouldn’t be easy. The serum doing who knew what with her insides, with the baby, and she thought with chagrin that of course she’d feel like death.  She half expected a slimey skeletal creature to explode out of her chest, tap dancing past Steve and onto the floor.

Knitting waited. So did Steve.

He didn’t answer the question of when he was going to leave. He carried her to the bed and brought her fluids and antiemetics and washcloths to wipe her mouth when she got sick. She hated it. Hated being dependent and weak, hated that they were in stasis because she was too shaky, too weak to stand on her own. Hated the sensitivity, to light, to touch, to every time he looked at his phone or stepped outside to talk to Sam or Clint.

Only once did she tell him he could go, that he didn’t have to stay, especially when he was needed. Safehouses in New York, secret negotiations and planning, discussions about protocols. It was only a matter of time before he was called back, before the Accords did more harm than good and someone had to do something or the bad guys would take advantage and win. She could never stand in his way, not for that and especially not when she yearned herself to go back.

“I’m here whether you like it or not,” he told her flatly, hinting that this was not something up for negotiation. She was relieved.

The first night, he camped on her floor, as if the couch was too far and she was grateful for the sound of his breathing, for someone who could be there, that she wasn’t alone.

On the second night, she asked him to lay down beside her.  Her heart skipped when he looked relieved. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be touched, her stomach still so weak, and he didn’t make any sudden moves.

“Can you feel anything?” he asked and she shook her head. He was talking about the baby, not much bigger than a peanut still, but she was thinking about how much she loved him, how fearful she was that he’d leave. Carter, Stark, armed guns collecting him for his violations, or any number of people who also relied on him to lead.

“I can’t feel the baby. Not yet,” she admitted, but when she turned and met his eyes, it felt important to clarify. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel.”

_Your breath, your heartbeat, the heat just in your body next to mine, my insides in a blender because there is a life inside that we created._

“What do you feel?” he asked and she moved close so that she could nuzzle against his chest.

“Overwhelmed.”

“Scared?” He asked her this as she looked up, as she studied the age in his eyes.

The correct answer was terrified but somehow, lying in his arms, she could be convinced to hold her fear for a little while longer. The real world, where he might leave, where anyone might find out about the pregnancy, where staying put might be make her a target, could wait, at least until the world stopped spinning and she could think outside of _sick, sick, sick._

It was right about when the peanut was the size of a peach that Natasha realized the slow shift. The nausea lessened enough that one day she ate a sandwich, and then soup, and then suddenly they were sharing meals again. Suddenly, she was wrapping her arms around his neck and asking if he’d mind going to the liquor store down the street to buy her a candy bar.

It was while she was devouring aforementioned candy bar, her knitting on her lap and her brain firing all sorts of happy synapses at the feel of chocolate on her tongue and a settled stomach that he asked her to marry him.

“We should...I’d be honored if you’d…” he sat next to her, reaching for her hand. Natasha stopped chewing mid-bite to look over slowly, to see the flush of his face as he worked to spit out the question he’d obviously been thinking hard about.

“If I what?” she asked, daring him to finish his sentence.

“Marry me.”

Natasha had no doubts that he was earnest, that he was asking her because he believed they should, that they might be good married, that this was the next step before the baby came. She swallowed her bite and took a deep breath because she didn’t want to start a fight.

“I don’t think it’s necessary.”

He sat back and watched her and she could _see_ the wheels turning, could hear all of the self-doubt running through his mind. So she twisted her body, looking him straight in the eye, because it had nothing to do with not loving him.

“You don’t want to get married, Steve. And do what? Settle down with a kid and a dog? Get a minivan and a yard where you can teach him or her how to play catch?”

He looked down, jaw tight and she knew the truth hurt, that even if he thought he’d given up that dream, traces of it still lingered. “I want you to be safe, Natasha. I want you both to be safe.”

She tilted his chin up and kissed him softly, hoping he would understand that she was with him, that she didn’t need marriage to need him, to want him, to envision fighting alongside him for the rest of her life.

“You have my heart. You have it.”

It was the sort of thing that got easier and easier to say out loud, as if she’d successfully trained herself to be bold and honest. He smiled, face crestfallen, and pulled her so that she was sitting across his lap, legs dangling and her forehead touching his.

“I’m not going to stop asking.”

Marriage, like birth and death, was a sacrament, he explained. A sign of faith and grace and forgiveness.

“Like how we are forgiving each other? Daily?” she asked, her voice as gentle as possible because those wounds still stung a little when she thought about them. He acquiesced for the moment, though she believed him that he wouldn’t let it rest.

***

“Sam needs my help. He’s in Wakanda but I think he wants to go back to New York,” he said one morning, his face in her hair and his chest hard against her back on the bed. Her heart dropped into her stomach even though she knew it was news long time coming but she held her breath and tried to remain as controlled as she could. They hadn’t made any quick decisions but her life felt stuck in an hourglass, time running out and decisions to be made whether she wanted to make them or not.

“Stay a little longer?” she tried not to beg, reaching back to grab his hip. They weren’t intimate, not for lack of want, and had been slow. Kissing and lips on throats and holding one another partly because of the morning sickness that she was paranoid was lurking right around the corner, partly because of his admitted fear of hurting the baby.

Partly because she couldn’t stop thinking about his lips on someone else’s, though she knew in the way his tongue swept over hers or the way he ran fingers over her arm that he wasn’t thinking about anyone else but her.

“I’ve got nowhere else to go,” he told her, moving his palm over her belly, curving his palm over the small bump that she couldn’t believe was there.

_***_

“Felicidades, es niño.”

Natasha looked wide-eyed over at Steve, who’d been holding her hand as they listened to the sound of the heartbeat, roaring like a train, and watched as the ultrasound tech tried to make sense of the inkblot on the monitor. Natasha could make out the spinal cord, the limbs, the head to big for its’ body.

“Boy,” she watched him breathe, watched his face change as it all became even more real.

The ultrasound tech printed out a copy of the grainy image and she watched as he traced it with his fingers, the dream perhaps not as dead as either of them thought.

***

She tapped her toes against his thigh and smiled when he picked them up and put them on his lap, rubbing them even though they weren’t sore because he was already so paternal, already wanting to give her whatever she needed for the baby.  His thumbs and fingers ran gently along the tops of her feet and around her ankles but stopped when her toes pushed forward, tapping again this time between his legs.

“Tease,” he said, not moving her feet and she stretched out more. She could feel him, half-hard already, and her body tightened and shivered at the thought. The unspoken embargo on sex. She was the one who’d have to make the first move, he always moved around her, careful and apologetic and hungry, like he was starving. She was hungry too, she wanted him too, and it felt suddenly like there weren’t any good reasons why they couldn’t, why they shouldn’t…

“Do you wanna?” she asked, working her toes around his crotch and up under his shirt playfully. He eyes went dark and he worked one hand up her calve, a slow and tentative stroke up toward her knee. She’d started having vivid dreams, of him, of past lovers, of blurry faces and phantom hands that touched her almost but never enough. Pregnancy hormones. She hoped he’d be game, hoped that this was the right thing to do, if only because she knew this was something they’d always been good at.

“Natasha,” he said, voice dark, and she grabbed the hand on her leg so she could pull him toward her. He hesitated to put his weight over her and she shifted so they were side by side instead, half of her ass in the air and the other half clinging to him because the couch wasn’t big enough. His dick pressed hard against her thigh and every time she wiggled, more to keep herself from falling more than anything, his breath hitched.

“Please.” Her voice had dropped down to rasps and he nodded, kissing her, tongue meeting hers as his hand moved up to her waist, pushing her against him so she wouldn’t fall. So she could feel that he needed it as much as her.  Her body thrummed and she sighed, hands not sure where to start. His chest, the lines of his stomach that she’d missed so much. His arms. His biceps because when she gripped them she felt so safe. She decided she should be greedy, fingers opening the button to his jeans as he kissed her. When she slid her palm down to touch and feel he growled into her mouth, hand grabbing her ass to push her even closer.

“Want you,” she whimpered, feeling almost high because it had been months, it had been too long.

“Come with me to Wakanda,” he said as he sucked onto her collarbone, as he was working her pants down. She stopped and pulled back so that she could look at him.

“I want to stay, until it’s safe.”

“Be safe with me.”

Natasha bit her lip and pulled back. He wasn’t wrong but she’d already made up her mind to spend the rest of the pregnancy in hiding, far away from anyone whose life might be complicated by having her around. She felt irrational, it felt irrational to leave and irrational to stay, but she knew that at least by staying, everything would be under her complete control.

“I need to think about it.”

Steve leaned his head back against the couch, dragged a thumb along the spot he’d made on her clavicle. “I don’t want to miss you, Nat. I don’t want to miss anything. Let’s stay together, however we can.”

There was a small flap of skin on her bottom lip, something she’d been chewing on as she thought about her future and her future with him, and she nearly bit it clean off before answering. She didn’t want to miss anything either. Didn’t want to miss the way he smelled, the way he sang old songs in the morning, the way he made her laugh and feel whole.

“Tell me you love me again,” she said finally, even though she knew the answer. She’d been alone so long, even when he was there, because she’d always found a way to push him away or lose any courage she had at telling him herself how critical he was in her life.  Even if she’d tried to shake him, they’d had some sort of love affair, hadn’t they? And now they had more, because they _were_ more, because they’d always _been_ more.

Natasha said yes and the reason is this:

She knew that this was what she wanted now. Not what she'd always wanted, because she was self-aware enough to admit that she'd wasted too much time pretending they didn't mean anything, that she didn't love him.  She couldn't say when the shift had occurred but she wanted it and it was finally within grasp, the lifetime of home with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone. My sincerest thank yous.


End file.
